


O Kuryakin, Where Art Thou?

by girlintheglen



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: Gen, almost het
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-18
Updated: 2013-09-18
Packaged: 2017-12-26 22:33:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/971068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/girlintheglen/pseuds/girlintheglen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just what sort of woman is a perfect match for the Russian?  Dare to discover...</p>
            </blockquote>





	O Kuryakin, Where Art Thou?

  
Illya Kuryakin was not known for his charm, although he did have his own brand of the stuff.  A cool gaze was known to send secretaries into wild imaginings while the timid smile, rare but coveted, had the effect of making a woman feel somehow chosen. Kuryakin’s charm was not dispensed randomly or unknowingly, perhaps making it all the more desirable.  
  
The woman who was currently attempting to swill the Russian like a generous portion of vodka was a THRUSH temptress named Veronica Leghorn.  An unfortunate name to be sure, but it somehow matched her temperament as well as the long limbs upon which she walked so resolutely.  In a skirt that could have doubled as skin for the way it fit, with a slit up to regions normally reserved for intimate relations, Veronica had it bad for the Russian.  If not for her seemingly ardent affection for all things THRUSH, she would gladly have forfeited both fortune and power for one night with the handsome blond known to her only as Kuryakin.  She insisted on calling him only by his last name, as though he were a rock star or fashion designer.  
  
“Oh, Kuryakin, you look very uncomfortable in that position.  I really do want to help you, if only you will renounce UNCLE and come be by my side.  I promise to protect you from anyone who would dare and try to exact revenge on your previous actions against the Hierarchy.  Kuryakin, I adore you.”  
  
Illya was unsure what he had done to merit this devotion from Veronica, but she was correct in assuming that he was in some physical distress.  He was stripped nearly naked, having been allowed to retain his boxers, although he felt they were not long for service since the fabric had been shredded somewhat during an altercation with a knife wielding guard.  It had been a short lived attempt at escape, the result for which he was now enduring.  Illya could feel the cold metal beneath him through the tears in his shorts, something not lost on the lovely Veronica Leghorn.  
  
  
“I believe that you do honestly wish to help me, Veronica, uh… darling.  If I leave UNCLE, however, my former employer, the Soviet government, will most likely have me killed.  You can see my predicament, I hope, regardless of how tempting you are.”  
  
Veronica sighed, it was the first sign of love from her Russian stud.  If only they hadn’t been fated for this drama.  
  
“We are like Romeo and Juliet, my fair Kuryakin.  The trouble is, I don’t really think I could terminate myself over you, although…”  
  
That didn’t sound very promising, and Illya envisioned (only briefly) the tragic scene where Juliet plunges the knife into her pert breasts.  And then he sighed, realizing how his association with Napoleon had dulled his classical sensitivities.  Nowhere in Shakespeare’s account did he mention pert breasts.  That had Napoleon written all over it.  
  
“Veronica, my dearest… if you could only release me from this  … um, here…”  Blue eyes appeared limpid and loving as he looked at the buxom redhead.  Illya was suddenly a little fearful of what might happen should she let him go; the woman was half a head taller than he and so well endowed, he was slightly intimidated at the prospect of … But he was Russian, and would not be bowed by female attributes.  
  
“Oh Kuryakin, how I would love to do that.  But, you see my love, there is someone on the way here who has stated that he must have you and that he intends to break you.  If you would just give me the information now, then I could let you go and we would be together.”  
  
 That last was said with a tinge of wistfulness, something that Illya didn’t imagine was a normal part of Veronica’s personality.  How did Napoleon deal with this on a regular basis, he wondered?  
“I cannot, and I am sure you would think less of me were I to simply give up the information…’  Illya had an idea then, and since he had nothing to lose really, he ventured out into deeper waters.  
  
“However, if you were to pretend that I have told you, then we could both leave here.  You could say that you are taking me to a safe place, and that you will divulge the information after we are well away from here.  Then we can be together… my dove.”  
  
Veronica was considering it, unsure whether or not to believe her blond Adonis; the charm could be deceit, but it made her  _feel good_  to be with him, and he had called her  _his dove_ …  
  
“All right, I shall do it.  But you must promise me something.”  Veronica suddenly looked vulnerable, something that unnerved the Russian.  He didn’t want to be unkind, but this was THRUSH; she was THRUSH.  It wasn’t a love affair, and he had to shake off his feelings of chivalry and decorum.   
  
“All is fair in love and war, my sweet.  We shouldn’t let what others have ordained stand in the way of our being together.  Should we?”  
  
Veronica was untying the ropes that held the nearly naked agent.  When he sat up the remains of his underwear hung limp from the elastic band at his waist.  Deciding that modesty was not his priority at the moment, Illya stepped out of what was left of his boxers and tossed them aside.  Veronica stood and watched, transfixed by the sight of what she had so long desired.  Without regard to the location and timing, she plunged toward Illya, pinning him to the metal table from which he has just risen.  Her kisses were passionate, her hands frenzied as they reached for him… all of him.  
  
“Veronica… umm… ooh… mmmm…” Illya was finally able to push her away from him, both of them breathless and, much to his chagrin, enlivened by the encounter.  
  
“Oh, Kuryakin…”  She moaned his name, something Illya decided he was tiring of quickly.  
  
“Veronica, we must leave here. Now.  I need some clothing…”  She straightened up and without delay found a THRUSH jumpsuit, throwing it to Illya as she continued to watch him.  He was certain she had licked her lips, but he hurriedly dressed himself, locating a pair of boots in the locker near the door.  ( _He made a mental note to ask Napoleon why he thought there was always a THRUSH uniform handy when it came time to make an escape.)_  
  
“What is the quickest way out of here?  If you want to have dinner with me tonight in Milan, I suggest you lead us out of here now.”   With that suggestion planted in her mind, Veronica began the ascent from the basement of the old villa and up through a winding staircase, out onto a balcony that overlooked a small patio.  Illya clucked his tongue at the lack of security, certain now that he and Veronica could get out of the villa and into a nearby jeep, the vehicle of choice it seemed for many THRUSH outposts.  
  
At that moment Veronica stopped in her tracks, her long legs like Corinthian columns in the fading sunlight.  Illya took a second to reconsider his reasons for not wanting to cooperate with the Amazonian woman.  
  
“Kuryakin, do you love me, just a little?”  There was a plaintive quality to her voice that made Illya feel guilty for his deception.  He might have seduced her and been able to live with himself, but for her to question him now like this…  
  
“Veronica, you are perhaps the most imposing woman I have ever met; and I mean that as a compliment.  Not only are you beautiful, you are clever and, if this is any indication, a romantic at heart.  That is something I do not expect of anyone within THRUSH.”  
  
But that did not answer her question, and it showed on her face in the lone tear that fell from her right eye.  Something about that intrigued Illya.  And then he touched her, running his hand up her arm, over the exposed shoulder and then the smooth skin of Veronica’s back.  What he felt next confirmed a suspicion that he had only allowed to surface in the course of this latest encounter with the perfect woman called Veronica Leghorn.  
  
She saw the look of recognition on Kuryakin’s face, and her heartbreak was so real, so complete, that her entire system broke down, and with one last look into his blue eyes, Veronica went offline.  
  
Illya was stunned into a temporary stupor.  He could hardly believe that this woman, this… creature… had been another THRUSH fembot.  They had certainly perfected them if Veronica was any indication; so human in appearance and, to his surprise, emotionally real.  
  
Illya heard the sound of boots on tile, and with one last look at the beautiful Veronica, he bounded down the last set of stairs and into that waiting jeep.  He was on the road and heading towards Milan before long, unaware that Veronica had come back on, just in time to thwart several THRUSH guards in their attempt to get past her.  Ultimately, she died trying to save her Kuryakin.  
  
Two days later Illya was back in New York, seated at the table around which decisions and dictates were made.  Mr. Waverly had finished reading the report on his mission, and without any apologies for its contents, Illya was ready to answer any and all questions.  Well, almost any and all.  
  
Napoleon was watching his partner, his own take on this affair not yet fully resolved.  Finally, he just had to ask.  
  
“So, Illya, are you telling me that this … fembot, was in love with you?  I can barely believe it, but then again if you’ve actually included it in your report, I don’t think I can doubt it.”  The CEA was both amazed and amused.  Leave it to his stoic Russian partner to be the love object of a robot.  
  
“I assure you, I could never make this up.  She seemed to have developed some type of primal attraction, probably a glitch in their programming.  I wish I could have brought her back.”  Napoleon smirked at that.  
  
“I bet you do.”   
  
Mr. Waverly was not amused.  
  
“Mr. Kuryakin, I’m afraid we may have a bit of a conundrum upon us.”  Both Illya and Napoleon looked quizzically at their boss.  
  
“And what might that be, sir? The robot, fembot… she was disabled.  Unless there were more like her…”  
  
“Ah, yes I see recognition now in your expression.  Our best intelligence assures us that there are, indeed several more of these Leghorn models, and that each of them was programmed with a particular image implanted into their memories.”  
  
Illya looked stricken.  
  
“Several, sir?  Are you quite certain?  I… um… “  He was speechless.  Waverly was less concerned about who the robots might have in mind as love objects, and more agitated that they were out there somewhere, operating at the whim of some THRUSH scientist.  
  
“You and Mr. Solo will, of course, be apprised of any sightings.  I expect you, Mr. Kuryakin, to be doubly on guard for any female that seems overly impressed by your charms.  They may have altered the appearance of the Leghorn model, just to throw us off.  Oh well then, that will be all gentlemen.  Dismissed.”  
  
As Illya and Napoleon stood up to leave, the pneumatic doors whooshed open and a female employee entered.  She was unknown to either agent, but she set her sights on the blond and winked at him.  Illya checked the cut of her skirt and the length of her legs, then satisfied that she wasn’t one of the Leghorn fembots, he smiled in return.  
  
Napoleon thought she might be a fembot, since she had obviously bypassed him.  At least now he had a theory about the women who preferred his partner.  
  
 _“Bad programming_.”  He said it under his breath, and smiled.

 


End file.
